


It takes a heap o' livin'

by Etharei



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Superheroes, Technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-22
Updated: 2011-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 22:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etharei/pseuds/Etharei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>They have their day jobs. And then, they have this.</i> Modern!AU in which they are the superheroes of mutantkind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. lemon meringue

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Manderkat](blathering-kat.dreamwidth.org) and [ClearLiqueur](http://clear-liquer.livejournal.com) for editing the early versions of this, and to [janescott](http://archiveofourown.org/users/janescott/pseuds/janescott) for reading over the final draft. All remaining errors are mine alone.
> 
> I'm not entirely sure where this came from. I just got a hankering to write some domestic!fic, and then it kinda spiraled out of control, as things tend to do at 3AM in the morning. There may be more to come in this verse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [adamsheroin](http://adamsheroin.livejournal.com) decided Sean's favorite ice-cream <3

There is a house, old and stately like a grand queen, overlooking a sprawling estate of woods and grass and a small lake; and within her walls, under her roof, lives a family like any other.

“TEN MINUTES, EVERYONE!”

Erik winces, but continues the last-minute check of his briefcase: project papers, laptop, phone, flash drive. His wallet turns out to not be in his coat; a cursory scan of the breakfast nook shows up the small collection of coins in its little pocket, and he floats the wallet up from where it had taken refuge under the chairs.

A stampede of feet across the floor above causes the ornaments on the ceiling lamp to bounce and sway. He picks out Angel’s bracelet, senses her flattening herself against the wall as the mob containing Alex’s watch, Sean’s iPod, and Raven’s hairpins go racing down the hallway.

“A bit chaotic, this morning,” says Charles, wandering in, his hands trying to fasten his cufflinks and fix his tie at the same time. His expression is one of harried surprise, as if the morning hours of a regular work- and school-day don’t always resemble a bit of a disaster zone. “Erik, have you seen my-“ Erik floats up the set of keys he’d discovered when searching for his wallet, “right, thanks.”

Something heavy bounces along the upstairs floor, followed by a series of furious knocks, and a perfectly audible, “GET OUT OF THE SHOWER DARWIN IT’S MY TURN NOW.”

“Hank’s picking the kids up today, thank goodness,” continues Charles, “There’s a bug going around the faculty, so I have a solid block of classes after lunch.” He blinks, looking a little lost now that he’s tamed his clothing. Erik grabs a slice of toast from the pile and presses it into Charles’ hand.

“I’ll text him later to remind him,” says Raven, breezing past them and going straight into the kitchen.

“I’d appreciate it,” Charles calls after her. He turns back to Erik and his toast. “Sean’s got a presentation today, but I’ve been rehearsing with him all week and I’m sure he’ll do fine. Angel’s been invited to join the basketball team. Don’t ask her about her boyfriend, they’re not together anymore. Hmm, what else?” A particularly large crumb is clinging tenaciously on to the edge of Charles’ bottom lip. Erik can sympathize. “Darwin mentioned that he’s considering taking a gap year before university, maybe doing a tour of Europe.”

Erik gives him a bland look. “I let you believe I care about these things only because you give great blowjobs.”

Charles just grins and leans in for a kiss, and when he pulls away there are breadcrumbs all over Erik’s chin. “Like you weren’t worried along with the rest of us the last time Alex got into trouble.”

“Well, yes, I’d prefer not to be legally and morally responsible for a juvenile delinquent.”

“God forbid people think you’re not an upstanding member of the community. Oh, here’s your lunch.”

“Hank, please don’t be late again!” shouts Angel, now somewhere outside. Her bracelet is floating on level with the second floor. “Or you’ll be the one to fix whatever car Alex tries to hotwire.”

“That was _one time_!” protests Alex.

 _Grand theft auto is, generally, not a hobby one gets to practice until one gets it right_ , interjects Charles dryly. It always intrigues Erik how Charles’ thought-voice doesn’t, exactly, _sound_ like him, being that it isn’t actually a form of _sound_ , yet something about the delivery and the feeling behind it is so distinctly _Charles_ : genial and kind and solid as old books.

Erik’s thoughts are interrupted by the stomp-stomp-STOMP of teenage feet getting steadily closer. “The horde descends,” he grumbles, and closes up his briefcase.

Charles has just stuffed the rest of the toast into his mouth, making him look like a blue-eyed chipmunk nesting in tweed. Erik finds this ridiculous and _adorable_ and vaguely wants to slap himself in the face over it; instead, he hands his unfinished coffee to Charles and kisses him on the neck. A calculated move, as this affords him a glimpse of the mark at the juncture of neck and shoulder, dark red, just barely hidden by Charles’ collar.

Actually, now that he’s looking a little closer, Charles seems to be moving about with a hint of well-concealed stiffness.

He gets a brush of annoyance-arousal-affection from Charles, in addition to a crumby pout, and feels incredibly justified to be smiling smugly as he walks out to his car.

\+ + +

Erik isn’t sure why the dreary tedium of his job surprises him anew every morning. He’s suspected Charles’ interference, the invisible fingers of Charles’ good intentions carding through his short-term memory – Erik wouldn’t even _mind_ , that’s how bad it is – but he dully suspects it’s his own coping mechanisms. He knows he needs to go to work, to live like any other civilian contributing to society, so his brain convinces him nightly that his day-job isn’t as awful as he remembers it to be.

Except, yes, it _is_ as awful. Worse, on some days.

He stares at the metal ruler on his desk, at the metal pens and metal paperclips. He really doesn’t _have_ to be here. Taking a desk-job position at a mid-level tech company had been _his_ choice, after all. Something stable, easy, safe. Charles is always harping on about _balance_. And Erik hadn’t been ready, when he’d moved from recurring guest to a more regular role in Charles’ life, to return to a life path he’d thought lost to him for good.

On the other hand, he has no doubt that Charles would be fully supportive if - _when_ he’s ready to get back in the game.

Someone’s computer beeps loudly. One of the admins has a new piercing on his torso. Janos, looking bored enough to stab someone, passes him a stack of papers and folders. Erik’s gaze catches on the blue post-it stuck to the topmost sheet.

They completely ignore each other for the next couple of hours, but when lunch comes around, Erik goes down to the company cafeteria and finds Janos sitting at the end of a long table, having already demolished today’s soup-and-sandwich.

“Tell me,” says Erik without preamble, sitting down across from him.

“Possible drug smugglers,” says Janos. “The FBI managed to narrow it down to several warehouses in New Jersey, so they know where the stuff is going through, but they can’t figure out _how_ they’re doing it. Passed it along to our contact. A few of our people took a look around, saw some activity, but didn’t get too close.”

Under the table, Janos’ foot casually bumps into Erik’s instep. Erik gives no sign of noticing, occupied with opening up the brown bag he’d taken out of his suitcase.

“What’s today’s special?” asks Janos, grinning widely.

Erik scowls at him and pulls out a mini-cup of yogurt and a small container which, upon inspection, turns out to be full of pasta. “Carbonara with chicken and mushrooms,” he says, after a sniff. The container looks plastic but is, in fact, mostly metal, and the food is steaming a little by the time Erik removes the lid completely.

“That’s definitely not the Professor’s handiwork. Darwin’s?” Janos’ expression goes from teasing to a touch envious. “Kid’s got talent.”

Erik hums agreeably, already digging in. He’d be the first to attest to Charles’ many remarkable skills, but cooking, unfortunately, is not one of them.

Janos conjures a fork out of somewhere and grabs a piece of mushroom before Erik can stop him. “You guys gonna take the case?”

“Probably. At the very least, we’ll have the computer take a look at it. The people who checked out the site – anyone I would know?”

“Azazel, just last night.”

A voice passing by their table mutters something that _may_ or may not include “lunchbox”, followed by stifled chuckles. Janos’ eyes flick over Erik’s shoulder, then return to Erik’s face with a worried expression. But Erik just eats on peaceably; he remembers having less than this to live on, and then later eating mass-produced food every day. He’s hardly going to turn his nose up at a home-cooked meal.

“What?” he asks irritably, when Janos doesn’t stop staring at him. “My kid made this, and it’s fucking delicious. Those idiots are welcome to their overpriced take-out.”

Though, fine, a few of the dickwads _may_ experience some slight difficulties the next time they try to use their car keys.

Janos’ lips twitch up into a small, unexpected smile. “You’ve got a good thing going for you, Lehnsherr, you know that?”

Erik frowns. “Where the fuck did that come from?” But Janos thumps him on the arm and says nothing else. He doesn’t leave, either, just continues sipping his soda, his quick hands filching bites of penne under the guise of keeping Erik company.

When Erik gets back in the office, he bends down to pick up a few sheets of paper that have escaped from the tottering pile on his desk. As he does so, he plucks a tiny rectangular chip, grey, from the side of his shoe where Janos had stuck it. It’s smaller than his thumbnail.

He reaches into his bag and takes out his personal cell phone. It looks like a perfectly ordinary iPhone, though not the most recent model, and it displays a normal screen when he unlocks it. He pulls up the number pad, whereupon typing in a seemingly random collection of numbers causes no discernible change whatsoever. Except when he returns to the main screen, there are suddenly more options available that are not, perhaps, to be found on any app store anywhere.

The chip needs a full minute to upload its contents to the phone, which makes Erik suspect that there’s video included. He’s glad that he can just press the chip to the touchscreen now; the time they’d used phones with physical slots, and tried to regulate the data chip sizes accordingly, had been a lesson on technological pluralism.

The phone chirrups once the upload is done, and Erik sends the digital packet to one of the house’s smaller off-site servers, tagged for a thorough virus scan. Azazel is fairly trustworthy, though, and Erik has been working with Janos for as long as they’d both been in FrostByte, so he goes ahead and taps out a text message.

 **To:** Family  
We’re having lemon meringue tonight.

The familiar clicking of McTaggert’s heels alert him to her approach long before she comes into view, dark hair just barely visible over the cubicle walls. He’s got his head down and eyes on the paperwork when she walks past. She doesn’t stop, just speaks to someone quietly before _click-clicking_ down a different direction. He sighs, contemplates the piles on his desk, and wills himself back to work again.

He surfaces an hour later, mostly because the coffee he’d refilled after lunch is now only a thin film at the bottom of his mug. He brings his cell with him to the break room and sees, without much surprise:

 **NEW MESSAGES**

 **Havok:** damn i want lemon meringue now  
 **Banshee:** wat does yellow mean?  
 **Angel:** u ate all our yogurt for lunch plus cheesecake HOW R U HUNGRY  
 **Mystique:** recon  
 **Darwin:** there’s more pasta at home  
 **Beast:** not anymore?  
 **Havok:** hate u bozo  
 **Angel:** fucking bottomless pits, see if i share my lunch again  
 **Beast** hey prof came home, i didn’t eat all of it  
 **Mystique:** thx guys ppl nxt to me think i have a vibe in my purse  
 **Darwin:** y don’t we use chat instead of reply-all  
 **Havok:** wat chat there is no cat  
 **Beast:** guys this data stream is piggybacking on a military satellite. just fyi.  
 **Havok:** wtf Sean how did u post a macro on my wall so fast  
 **Banshee:** hearken to my ginger ninja skills  
 **Beast:** and there IS a chat, i showed u guys last month  
 **Mystique:** busted  
 **Angel:** u guys suck at covert ops  
 **Professor:** I know for a fact that five of you have class right at this moment.

Erik finds himself grinning, despite earnest efforts not to. He still has two hours left, but somehow the endless minutiae of paperwork feels _a little_ less soul-crushing.

Still. _Two hours._ He picks up a paperclip from the little bowl under his monitor, tucks his hand under his desk. He floats the clip, feeling rather than seeing, applies his power to bend and shape the little twist of metal. Once he’s satisfied, he adds it to the Dali-inspired, metallic graveyard of a sculpture taking shape under his desk.

It’s not as satisfying as yanking down structural supports and crumpling the building around the hated, claustrophobic office, but it does let him deal with the immediate future and its endless stacks of technical documents.

\+ + +

Charles meets him in the hallway leading to the garage. “Hello, dear, how was work?”

Erik rolls his eyes and gets rid of Charles’ wide, impish grin by crushing his mouth against it. _Is my headache that awful?_

 _Maybe I’m the one with a headache._ Charles pulls back a bit, and looks him up and down with a considering expression. “No mysteriously collapsing buildings or twisted infrastructure on the news, so it can’t have been too bad.”

Erik makes a vaguely disgruntled noise and presses Charles against the nearest bit of wall, now exceedingly interested in forgetting about his day – forgetting, in fact, everything that isn’t Charles melting into him, lips parting and happy to greet Erik’s tongue. Charles’ hair looks very much on board with his plans, already growing mussed around the top before Erik’s gets his fingers in.

“Some days,” a bored voice drifts over to them, “I wonder who the teenage boys are in this house.”

Charles bats weakly at Erik’s shoulders, but since he doesn’t even stop sucking on Erik’s tongue, Erik thinks, _that is a very pathetic show of protest, Professor_ , and flips Raven off without looking.

She mutters something that sounds like “damn horndogs” and dashes away. Her shout of “FOUND THEM!” echoes off the dark wooden paneling and custom-order glass windows.

Erik thinks, _one, two, three…_ and Charles huffs out a laugh when Erik’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Erik floats it up to where they both can read the screen.

 **NEW MESSAGES**

 **Mystique:** code Chess Game, location – hallway between pantry and garage  
 **Banshee:** report gravity of Situation  
 **Mystique:** defcon 4  
 **Havok:** wait I always mix this up, is that clothes on or off?  
 **Darwin:** on  
 **Angel:** damn  
 **Beast:** if they’re not done by dinner, can someone please bring me food?  
 **Banshee:** u r nowhere near them  
 **Beast:** reference library, not lab. hallway outside has direct line of sight

Erik buries his face in Charles’ neck, sagging against the other man’s helpless laughter. “Just for that,” he mumbles, “I’m tempted to go full DEFCON one right here.”

Charles treats him to Disapproving Face #3, but Erik doesn’t miss the telling shiver and the twitch high up against his thigh. _Exhibitionist._

 _Possessive caveman_ , retorts Charles fondly.

They indulge in a last, invigorating kiss, then take a few minutes to make themselves presentable again. Charles goes to dig Hank out of the scientific digests. Erik heads downstairs.

The hidden elevator opens at a touch of his power. Its concealed entrance is disguised by functional bookshelves, and the antique globe next to it works as a handprint scanner for the others. But Erik relishes all opportunities to unfurl his power after a day of restraining himself. There is something especially soothing about opening his awareness to the ever-present currents of magnetic fields in a well-known environment, running his power through objects which he has made himself.

Like the gentle wash of familiarity and welcome he gets whenever he enters Charles’ immediate radius, Erik thinks of this as his way of telling the metal _hello, I’m here_.

The elevator takes him down to the subterranean complex. The glare of bright walls and shiny chrome is always a little off-putting right after the luxurious dimness of the upper house.

There’s a bedraggled sign on the wall right across from the elevator. It reads, in a parade of different fonts:

wElCoMe 2 THE BASEment

He heads for the room at the end of the main hallway. Most of the walls here have been incorporated with psi-field negation and the very rare alloy that can block telepathic powers. Partly as a security measure, against scans from the outside or in case they ever bring in a telepath who needs restraining, but it’s also a design practicality, because of Cerebro.

And there’d been Charles’ argument: “if we are to live together, everybody should have a place to go to that I can’t reach, accidentally or otherwise; believe me, this is necessary for _all_ our sanities.”

To that end, only Erik can open _this_ particular door, by plying magnetism in a very specific pattern over the hidden locking mechanisms. He can do it now without thinking, and his stride doesn’t slow as he enters his personal workstation.

It’s wall-to-wall metal, inside. Possibly the only thing that isn’t made of metal is a ceramic mug, white with thick dark font declaring I <3 MY BOYFRIEND. He spots it where he’d left it two nights before, next to the pictures.

The _real_ family pictures, Erik thinks of them, versus the nauseatingly mundane family picture on his desk at FrostByte. These show Raven mid-pirouette, beautifully blue; Angel and Sean cheating at basketball; Hank hanging from a tree in a Batman costume while, below him, Armando and Alex are hula dancing in grass skirts. And Charles, of course – Charles frowning in concentration at a textbook; Charles sleeping out on the grass; Charles beaming wide at a veritable _sea_ of candles, because the kids had gotten the idea that Charles should make up for all the candles he’d missed out on when growing up. Captured moments encased in steel, a stylized waterfall sculpture that looks like a bunch of photo frames melted and bent together – mainly because that’s exactly what it is.

These days, Erik’s moments of _what the fuck am I doing how did I get here_ are not as frequent as they used to be. But it’s... helpful, to have reminders of everything he’s gained.

He wakes his computer terminal and checks the info packet from Janos, finds it ready and cleaned of any viruses or trackers. He looks through each file, tags the most relevant ones. Saves the videos for later. There’s enough evidence for him to decide that this is worth checking out, and he’s fairly sure Charles will agree.

A gentle beep signals that the general PA system is on, followed by Mrs. Alvarez’s cheerful voice announcing, “Dinner’s ready!”

Almost everyone is already in the dining room when Erik arrives. He takes a seat next to Charles, who’s bickering with Raven about something to do with her college. Sometimes Erik envies them the incomprehensible language they fall into, full of references to experiences or people or ideas, that signify a life long shared. Hank stumbles in last, as per usual, and automatically presents his damp, clean hands to Mrs. Alvarez when she looks pointedly at the chemical stains on his clothing.

Dinner is grilled trout and a rich beef stew and jacket potatoes, plus cream of mushroom and some kind of salad that has a lot of olives in it. There’s about five minutes of polite plate-passing before older habits will out, and then it becomes a matter of hoping that nobody will start throwing the breadsticks. Regardless, it’s gratifying to see the kids packing it away like there might be no more food tomorrow, Alex and Hank especially. But then, in here, Erik’s childhood is the norm rather than the exception. Mrs. Alvarez fusses over them all and reveals that Armando had been the one to make the stew. Sean and Alex cheer heartily, still with food in their mouths, which gets a “close your holes, that’s disgusting, do you think the rest of us want to see your half-eaten food” from Raven and Charles sighing like he’s failed them as a parental figure.

“So, is there a mission tonight?” asks Armando, in an obvious attempt to divert attention from himself.

“Seems so, but Charles hasn’t seen the files yet,” answers Erik. “And,” he interrupts before the rest of the table can jump in, “it’ll likely be just reconnaissance. The information that’s been passed to us is minimal.”

Half the table scowls at him – recon means a four-person team only.

“But what is it?” persists Angel. “Robbery? Con? Trafficking? Experimentation?”

“Drugs, most likely.” Erik floats his fork over to the bowl of potatoes and spears one. “Usual surveillance can’t figure out how the stuff is being moved, so there’s a chance of mutant involvement. Though what few of the traffickers have been seen appear to be human.”

 _Get me one too, love?_

The fork, plus potato, changes path at the last moment and deposits its burden onto Charles’ plate, then heads back towards the platter.

 _Thank you._ Charles addresses the whole group aloud, “Erik and I will go over what we’ve been given and we’ll let you know the plan. But don’t expect to get out of doing your homework.”

There’s a rumble of reluctant agreement around the table, and everyone’s attention dissolves back into smaller conversations. Alex, on Erik’s other side, starts telling him about Hank’s idea to incorporate the technology in his chestplate into the whole suit, if Erik can lend a bit of help with the microcircuits.

Several years ago, Erik would have found the noise of scraping dinnerware and voices speaking at cross-purpose and occasional airborne food moderately unbearable. But now they make up the sense of _home_ ; soaking, insidious, right into his skin, smoothing down the last bristles of tension racked up by the outside world.

Even when Sean adds pepper to his soup and accidentally inhales some of it.

Erik breaks the ensuing silence by saying to Raven, “I must admit, your reflexes have definitely improved,” genuinely impressed.

“You didn’t have to _punch me in the face_ ,” complains Sean, leaning back on his chair and cupping one hand over his nose.

“You’ll heal – the cabinets, chandelier, and Xavier family china wouldn’t have,” says Raven, unrepentant. “Calm down, I didn’t even break bone. It’ll swell up overnight and be fine in the morning.”

“Here,” says Hank, coming back from the kitchen. He hands Sean a Ziploc bag full of ice.

“Thanks.”

“Just for that, Sean, you get to have your fill of ice-cream for dessert,” announces Charles after taking a careful look at the injured nose. “I believe we even have a pint of homemade pistachio.”

“Okay, seriously,” says Raven, while Sean lets out a whoop of triumph, “there is no way you have his favorite flavor just lying around. _Where are you hiding the goods?_ ”

“I don’t know what you mean,” says Charles loftily, as if Charles’ Secret Stash of everyone’s favorite foodstuff hasn’t been a family mystery for years, “it is just a happy coincidence that I had Mrs. Alvarez pick some up from the shop earlier today.”

“Raven, give it up,” says Angel, “not even Erik’s found it, and he has more to bribe Charles with.”

True, but it’s not as if Erik has tried very hard – Charles takes as much delight in occasionally spoiling his ragtag collection of strays as they do in receiving unexpected, delicious treats. It’s also turned out to be a remarkably good way of keeping the peace, which Erik attributes to most people never truly outgrowing their ten-year-old selves.

Dinner ends and Charles herds everybody off to do schoolwork. Erik pours them both some wine, takes the glasses with him to Charles’ study. The chess set is in the corner, still in the middle of their last game; he remembers a time when they’d been able to play every night, when he thought the mansion went no deeper than the Cold War bunker, when the biggest secret in Erik’s head had been the note in his medical and employment records, under _Mutant: Yes_ and _Type of Power_ , that still reads _Telekinesis: weak, unpredictable_.

He’s got the computer terminal set into the big desk turned on and the evidence files primed to go by the time Charles shows up. Together, sipping wine, they examine the notes and photographs and surveillance reports. Erik drags around the file icons floating lazily in the air above the terminal, separates the video files. They watch these on the computer’s main screen, which is basically the surface of Charles’ desk, usually hidden by the retractable wooden cover.

“Azazel took most of these,” Charles comments, “I can tell from the movements.”

“Janos said he went last night.” Erik frowns. “You mean the fact that the video is wobbling like a drunk person on their first time out at sea?”

Charles gives him a wry smile. “I imagine it’s not particularly easy to keep a camera steady when you’re holding it with a tail which you normally use to keep your balance.”

Oh. Holding the camera with his tail and thereby keeping his hands free – that actually makes sense. “He could have gone for a smaller camera, attached it to his clothing.”

“A smaller camera would mean a poorer resolution. He went there intending to get video evidence. If he wasn’t sure how close he’d be able to get, he likely decided to risk a heavier device for the higher resolution.”

What Azazel had gotten was… not much, really. The footage starts off a considerable distance from the suspected warehouses, with a tall fence in the way. It zooms in on several figures lurking around the structures, but they just seem engaged in an irregular sort of patrolling. Azazel creeps closer, virtually silent. Then the camera starts picking up a faint humming sound. Azazel stops a few feet short of the fence. It looks like a normal fence, chain link, but the humming is quite distinct now. Azazel backs away. The rest of the video is him attempting the same approach at two other locations along the fence, getting close but never touching the chain link.

“According to his notes,” says Erik, pulling up the file, “Azazel considered teleporting straight into one of the warehouses, but something about that fence made him cautious, and his instincts told him to not risk it without knowing what that fence does. He checked the ground around the fence but found no dead animals, so it’s not electrified.”

They go over the long-distance surveillance on the warehouses, mostly satellite images and stills taken from outside the fance. “Hmm, yes, I see why they’re concerned.” Charles pauses the video. “Notice those crates, the large ones just inside the warehouse door? If you follow the timestamps, the deliveries in and out of the warehouses have a fairly regular schedule. We can track how most of those boxes and crates arrive and leave. _Except_ for a particular batch of crates, seems to be a dozen or so, every few days. They just appear, no sign of how they get there, and after a couple of days they disappear, with equally no explanation for how they are moved or where they go.”

“So, we have a case?”

Charles grins, bright and boyish. “We have a case.”

\+ + +

“Angel,” announces Charles, after they’d explained the situation to the kids. Four people for the team, plus Hank as pilot, and Erik and Charles are a given. Raven is also a given for recon, because she’s their best scout. This means the fourth is usually one of the kids, and then it depends on the situation. Tonight, the choice had been down to Angel or Armando.

“Darwin would be handy for dealing with whatever the humming is that’s coming from the fence, but we decided it might be wiser to have aerial backup instead, especially if we’re just having a look tonight,” Charles explains to the rest, apologetic because he’s a sucker for their disappointed looks.

Unsurprisingly, all the brats ignore Charles’ directive to continue their schoolwork and follow them down to the basement. Hank is already there, prepping the Jet, and there are maps of New Jersey and topographical data up on the launch deck console. Erik scowls at the suit that’s thrust into his hands, but goes and changes into it.

Charles is standing on the ramp and telling the others, “It should be quick, a few hours at the most,” when Erik passes him and gets strapped in.

“Famous last words,” mutters Raven from the co-pilot’s seat.

\+ + +


	2. all things shall point due Magneto

They have their day jobs. And then, they have this.

Hank flies the jet around the warehouses a couple of times, taking multiple scans of the area and pulling up information from the house’s more powerful computers. It only takes the other kids the length of the flight to the target site to abandon all pretense of schoolwork, and their chatter fills up the comm lines.

“That is one boring set of warehouses you’re looking at there, X-Men,” drawls Sean.

Alex hums in agreement. “We’re only interested in the three, yeah?”

“I have an idea, wait, give me a second,” interjects Armando. “Ah, got it – sending it to you now, Beast.”

“Perhaps we should have locked down the basement after we’d gone,” says Charles.

“They all have computers _in their rooms_ ,” Erik points out.

“I see it now,” exclaims Hank. “Great job, Darwin.”

Hank’s hands fly over the controls, activating what Erik thinks of as ‘Team Huddle Mode’. The chairs turn from their normal forward position to a circular inward one, facing the central 3D display that drops down from the ceiling. The display projects an accurate model of the warehouse and fence, and superimposes a graphical representation of what the scans have picked up, which looks like a flat circle, colored white by the computer, that goes through the buildings, bordered by the fence and far walls of the target warehouses.

“It’s basically a sophisticated motion-and-heat detector system, but it uses a continuous field rather than laser lines,” explains Hank. “Azazel was right not to teleport straight in. An alarm goes off if there’s something in the sensor field that’s moving and giving off a heat signature. See those gaps?” There are small dark circles within the larger circle. “Those correspond with the visible guards. They’re probably wearing some kind of device that tells the system they’re allowed to be there.”

“How high up is the field?” asks Angel.

“It’s just a flat plane, a few feet above the ground, almost waist-high. Fewer small animals to pick up by mistake. And anybody sneaking in would have to be crawling, which the guards and cameras would notice.”

It’s obvious, then, how they’ll be infiltrating the place. “Angel?” asks Charles.

“Good to go, Professor,” she replies, giving them a thumbs-up.

Raven looks speculative. “Can you carry me?”

Angel’s been building her strength, Erik knows. Part of it has involved trying to lift each of them at least once. But practicing at home is far different from being on the field. He’s glad that she takes a moment to think about it carefully before nodding.

Charles doesn’t say anything, but either he’s asked her telepathically or the question is clear on his face, because Raven turns to him and says, “It’ll be much faster and more efficient if there are two sets of eyes in that place, Professor. And you know Angel and I have been practicing.”

Her brother sighs and nods. Angel glances at Erik briefly, but doesn’t say anything; she, at least, knows of his belief that when someone claims to be ready for something, he accepts that they are. (Of course, this only applies to people he believes know what the fuck they’re doing – which is, admittedly, a fairly short list.)

Hank deposits them a few warehouses away from the site, and they silently creep over dusty, grassless ground and the dark hollows of disused buildings. It’s hardly the image of glamorous superhero work, especially with the smell of pollutants and smoke, the thrum of rusting metal all around, and his ear full of Alex grumbling about his history homework.

The moment Erik can sense the fence properly, he also senses the energy running through it. “I think I can sense the field itself,” he says quietly. “There’s a closed circuit of some kind.”

“That makes sense,” says Hank. “The fence covers a bigger area than the sensor field, and past the warehouses it’s broken in places. The warehouse walls, or something built right against them, probably make up part of the circuit.”

“I’ll try to figure out how the circuit works, in case there’s a way of disabling the field without triggering an alarm,” says Erik.

“Good idea,” whispers Charles. He nods at Raven and Angel. “All right, you two – you’re a go. Be careful, and try to spot the security cameras first.”

Thumbs-up. Angel’s wearing her transporting gear, and she attaches several carabiners to the straps on Raven’s suit. Her wings unstick from her bare back, spreading out fully, while she wraps her arms around Raven’s middle. A whispered acknowledgement of readiness, and then Angel takes off, slower than usual because of the extra weight. As soon as they’re off the ground, Raven tucks her arms and legs in.

Erik squints. Raven seems to have gotten smaller as well.

 _She’s been looking for the lightest form she can hold,_ explains Charles. _So far, the best she can do is her child self, but I believe her goal is to keep her current form, in case she needs to fight, whilst altering her substance to reduce her overall weight._

Fascinating. Erik has always believed in taking pride in one’s mutation, and working with other mutants; he’d interact _only_ with fellow mutants, if he could, to Charles’ endless exasperation. But he’s never really thought about using one’s mutation to accommodate another’s, not so directly.

 _Funny, I think about it all the time_ , comments Charles wryly.

 _You’re a telepath. Your power_ is> in your effect on other people.

 _What about you?_ Charles volleys back. _Does this mean you’re doomed to be a megalomaniac? And one day, all things shall point due Magneto?_

That sort of thing should rile him up, or at least annoy him, but Charles delivers the thought with unabashed _fondness_ , like he means some combination of _I wouldn’t really mind_ and _I’m already there_.

“We’ve landed, just thought you guys should know,” Raven’s voice over the comm line interrupts them. “But don’t let _our mission_ get in the way of your flirting or anything.”

“It’s, like, a warning sign when they both go silent,” Armando chips in with a laugh.

“You can taste the sexual tension all the way up here,” adds Angel, helpfully. “Oh look, guards with guns.”

It’s dark enough that details are hard to see, which is a pity because Erik is sure Charles must be blushing and biting his lip in a way no grown man should find endearing – but which Erik, tragically, does. He’s familiar enough with the flexes of Charles’ telepathy that he can tell Charles is reaching out to include the two on the warehouse roof.

 _All right, I think I’ve got everybody within the sensor field and a couple of minds out in another compound. That doesn’t guarantee you won’t be seen by someone further away, so please be careful. And find those security cameras._

While Charles is coordinating that, Erik speaks quietly into the open comm line. “Beast, cut the chatter from Base. You can keep talking to them up there, but we don’t need distractions on the ground.” He’s tempted to cut the line entirely, but the thought of not having anyone keeping an ear on the house makes him even more nervous.

“Copy,” replies Hank. “Do you want me to cut the feed from you guys?”

He hesitates. “No, they can keep watching.”

 _Found one cam,_ reports Raven. It takes Erik a moment to realize that this is coming through the telepathic link established by Charles, not her voice on the comm line. The biggest clue is a visual that accompanies the thought: a battered camera installed in one corner of the warehouse that Raven has slipped into.

Erik locates it easily with the visual reference, and he keeps it turned away from the upper window where Raven is lurking. Then Angel, in the adjacent building, finds one, and he gets hold of that too.

 _See, this is the sort of thing we could not have done without training together,_ Charles think-whispers. There’s something distinctly different about the _feel_ of his thoughts when he’s only addressing Erik: intimate, weighing of warmth, familiar as tasting tea from Charles’ lips.

Erik, on the other hand, doesn’t trust his ability to keep his reply private, and instead closes the physical distance between them and kisses him soundly, one hand gripping the suit over Charles’ hip.

 _Um, are they-?_

 _Professor, I know you think you stopped projecting things after puberty but whatever it is you and Magneto are doing, stop it right the fuck now._

 _I think I’ve found the mutant,_ declares Charles. His physical eyes are fixed on Erik’s lips, though, which is both flattering and momentarily leaves Erik worried about what Charles will say next. _Mystique, she’s in your building._

 _Should I go over there?_ asks Angel.

Erik thinks about it. _No, get a good look around the other two buildings. We’ll need a good idea of the layout for the extraction._

 _Are you sure?_ Raven, this time. _I can see a couple of guards, but they don’t look any different from the guys in the other warehouses._

 _There’s a psychic dampener somewhere on the north-eastern side. I figured out what it was using Eri- Magneto’s senses._

 _Oh, is that what you were doing?_ the sarcasm in Raven’s thought feels heavy enough to sink a ship.

Now that Charles has pointed it out, Erik can sense the dampeners too, previously masked by the sheer amount of metal in container-like shapes all over the area. Their presence suggests a) possibly a rival trafficking ring has a telepath; or b) awareness that there are telepaths sprinkled through law enforcement and adjacent offices, occupying unobtrusive but often well-connected positions.

“Perhaps they know about the Professor,” says Charles.

Erik considers the idea and promptly rejects it. Sure, eventually the criminal underworld will get their acts together and realize that, hey, these days crimes involving mutants get busted and sorted out astonishingly quickly, with the police or FBI or CIA showing up at exactly the right time and no evidence of any third party involvement, even though no mutants are ever found with the apprehended criminals.

(Well, no live mutants. Sometimes one is found to have been shot by their unconscionable colleagues. Or had fallen from a tall building. Or inexplicably hit by a plasma beam, from an experimental device located near the crime scene. Very tragic stuff.)

 _Technically, the Professor can’t exist_ , replies Erik. As far as the world knows, telepaths are mostly scammers with parlor tricks, and the occasional individual who can act as a truth detector, for whom physical contact is necessary. Meanwhile, Charles Xavier is a guileless, mild-mannered university man with an embarrassing enthusiasm for human-mutant interrelations. ‘Anonymity is our first line of defense.’

 _I think I see our target,_ reports Raven. There are more security cameras around that corner of the warehouse, and Erik obligingly keeps them turned away while he mentally follows her progress over the top of the storage crates. Through the link, Erik can sense where the dampeners are interfering with Charles’ blanket awareness, like faint static, but he can also see what Raven is seeing.

 _Careful that you don’t get low enough to be caught in the field_ , he warns her.

She’s looking at a rectangular shape, down on ground level and deep in shadow. _It’s a… a girl._ There are lights in another part of the warehouse, presumably where the guards can take a break, but this area is only getting the small amount of light filtering in through the windows high up. _She’s… shit, she’s in a cage. Looks young, maybe twelve? They’ve put chains on her, the bastards. Can’t tell what her mutation is._

 _I could push through the dampeners,_ thinks Charles. _But she might feel me. She’s frightened right now, she might react badly and give us away. Also, there’s the chance that the dampeners are to contain_ her _, not keep others out. Though I’m sure I’d have felt a young telepath strong enough to hide shipping crates, this close to the City._

“We also need to find out what exactly it is they are shipping,” says Erik. Though it really doesn’t matter, at least for them; if there’s a mutant involved, they’re going in.

 _I’ve been working on that,_ Angel chips in, _couldn’t find the secret shipment in the first building, but there are crates here in the third building that look like the ones from the videos._

 _Let me see._ Charles shifts his mental attention over to Angel. _Ah, yes, I’d agree._

Angel doesn’t bother waiting for Erik to confirm that he’s got a hold on all the cameras, just flits down to the tallest crate. He can feel her considering her acidic spit. He hurriedly peels open the top corner of the crate she’s standing on.

 _Thanks, Magneto._

He notices Charles staring at him. “What?”

“Do you even know how many things you’re manipulating right now?” asks Charles. “Mystique circled around and you kept the cameras pointed away from her even though your focus was on Angel.”

Well, it’s true that he’s probably never controlled so many tiny individual items all at once before. “And how many minds are _you_ hovering over right now, Professor?”

“I’m not actually _doing_ anything, though,” says Charles dismissively. “Angel and Mystique are very good at being quiet.”

“Yes, we are,” whispers Raven. “And guess who _aren’t_?”

There’s a faint buzzing sound, and Erik spots a small bump appearing very briefly above the warehouse that Angel had gone into. “I’ve got a couple of tacky Statue of Liberty souvenirs that sound hollow but don’t feel empty,” she says.

 _Good work. Mystique, get out of there. Angel, can you pick her up? Magneto, let’s close up._

Erik lifts an eyebrow at Charles, then straightens back the crate that Angel had taken the potential evidence out of. He does it slowly, in case any listening guards are alerted by the noise, but he’s not too worried on that front, as the place is full of the irregular creaks and groans of metal, especially with the light breeze from the river.

Angel and Raven make the short flight back, and the four of them trudge to the drop-off site, where Hank retrieves them without incident. Erik doesn’t fully relax until they’re in sight of the house, though.

The rest of the kids are waiting for them in the basement, to the surprise of no one. Charles is somewhat mollified to find that they’d at least brought their homework with them. Erik leaves him to do whatever it is that he does with them on school nights, and carries the Statues of Liberty over to a clear area of the communal workstation/meeting room/demonstration lab.

He leaves one for Hank to analyze later, and sets up a containment field around the other. Puts it through the usual battery of scans. Angel was right – the plastic souvenir is hollow in the middle, and said hollow is half-full of some kind of powder.

Erik mentally goes over his options for tools. Eventually he pulls over the portable saw, adjusting it easily even within the containment field. He dials the force field up to maximum, just in case – though this really does seem like a cut-and-dry drug smuggling operation – and carefully slices through the statuette, an inch from the bottom.

He’d idly worried about a hidden surprise, maybe a gaseous toxin, but nothing happens except for a small amount of powder spilling out and Lady Liberty now missing her feet. The scanners immediately pounce on the substance, and after a minute the computer screen proclaims it “COCAINE (accuracy: 80%)”.

“ _Erik_ ,” exclaims Charles, marching up to him. “Really? You couldn’t have waited?”

“It’s a straightforward drug trafficking case,” replies Erik. “I took the usual precautions, but there was no reason to stay in suspense about it.”

Charles sighs, exasperated, and looks at the opened statuette. “Cocaine? Well, at least we’ll be able to have law enforcement on standby.”

“Yes, we might as well gift-wrap the case for them.”

Erik doesn’t mean to put an edge in his voice, and he sees Charles noticing it. “Erik?”

He sighs, running a hand over his face. “It’s nothing. Just – I’m tired of having to rescue our people from greedy, ignorant humans.”

He doesn’t need telepathy to know that Charles is thinking, _not this again_. “Erik, I know that I’ll never be able to disabuse you of your ‘them vs. us’ mindset. But the capacity for cruelty and exploitation does not differentiate between mutant and non-mutant.” Charles gives Erik a pointed look. _You of all people should know that mutants are every bit as capable of hurting their own kind._

Erik shakes his head, suddenly irritated by Charles’ presence in his mind. Charles must pick up on it, because he pulls out completely, eyes widening. And it immediately feels strange, to have Charles physically close and not feel him at all. Has it been so long since Charles has deliberately stayed out? At the beginning, of course – but once Erik granted permission, Charles hasn’t been shy about delving in and out of his mind at will, and Erik has never objected. The vague discomfort he’s feeling now, like loss and vacuity and forgetting something important all knotted up, only makes him more unsettled, because shouldn’t it feel normal to be alone in his own head?

So, instead of reaching out for Charles again, he just nods, as if thanking Charles for giving him space. Charles looks even more worried, but doesn’t press him.

“We’re going in tomorrow,” Erik says, after an awkward moment.

“It seems so.” Charles is avoiding his eyes.

“I’ll let Janos know.”

“Yeah.” Charles lets out a breath, and smiles tiredly at Erik. “You should get some sleep, you have work tomorrow. I’ve got-” he gestures vaguely towards the kids.

“Right.” Erik considers going in for a kiss, wonders if that won’t just make things more awkward, wants to go for it anyway, and then Charles takes the decision out of his hands by patting Erik on the arm and returning to his brood.

Erik falls asleep before Charles gets to bed, and when he wakes up, the other side of the mattress is already empty and cooling.

\+ + +


	3. the kids must be here

The next morning, in an apparent fit of generosity, Erik brings a cup of Starbucks’ to Janos’ desk. This gets a few envious looks from neighboring cubicles but occasions no great comment, since he does this a couple of times a month without any clear pattern or reason.

Two of the admins believe that there is an illicit office romance going on there, while there is a bet going on among the rest of the department on whether the cute guy in the photo on Lehnsherr’s desk is really his boyfriend.

\+ + +

Turns out, by the time evening comes around, the whole gang is coming along – ostensibly so they can _observe_ the mission from the Jet and learn shit, but mostly, in Erik’s opinion, because it’s a Friday night and Charles is a total pushover. Hank reports that several New Jersey PD patrol cars are loitering within a convenient distance of the warehouses, and the FBI channels are showing casual interest in that area in a way that can shift to a very focused and _arresting_ kind of interest at the correct signal.

“I’m not 100% sure the new chestplate is ready,” says Hank, hovering anxiously over the plate that Alex is adjusting on his suit.

“Relax, Bozo, we tested it last weekend. It worked fine.”

“Yes, and then at the end _it flew off_.”

“You said it was just an issue of the screws not being tight enough.” Alex grasps Hank by the shoulder. “Hey, stop being such a fucking perfectionist, all right? Even if it explodes in my face, everyone’s gonna blame me for not listening to you.”

Erik gives Alex a dry look after Hank has rushed off to drag Sean away from a pile of fragile-looking equipment. “Playing fast and loose with the equipment, Alex?”

Alex shrugs and waves a hand dismissively. “No, you know Hank, if he’s really worried he wouldn’t have let me put it on in the first place.

On the other side of the room, Charles is busy checking on Armando’s gear. It’s a natural pause right before the start of a mission, and Erik takes the time to look at all the technology surrounding them, the smooth hum of the little docking bay, the illuminated Jet looming in the background. It’s practically a different planet from the life he’d had growing up.

He wonders what it would have been like to have been born fifty years ago, when the mutant-human division had been clear, to hear people tell of it, constantly on the precipice of full-out war. A stalemate that dragged on for years, which might have been on purpose, because at the end of it, mutants had sorted their shit out and developed their own systems of governance, overlapping but mostly independent of the humans’, and the humans knew about their existence, if on deliberately vague and misleading terms.

“I want to stay and take care of you,” the child Erik had told his mother.

“And you will, dearest,” said Edie. “But remember Hebrew school? Well, you are also part of another group of people, because my boy is extra special. Now you must go with the kind lady for a little while, and learn about them too.”

Erik had gone, and when he returned he’d made his mother laugh by dancing all their cutlery across their single rickety table like those women in bright dresses he’d seen on the TV.

“ALL ABOARD WHO’S COMING ABOARD!” announces Sean from the ramp.

Erik, returning to the present, becomes aware of Alex and Armando behind him discussing their suits. Specifically, what they would change if Hank and Charles ever let them.

“I mean, it’s cool that they don’t melt or catch fire, I’ve ruined enough street clothes standing next to you when you go off,” Armando’s saying, “but they’re not exactly, you know, superhero-like.”

“Man, you and Erik should make a petition, Erik’s been trying to spiff the suits up for ages. You can’t tell by looking, but he has a weird obsession with capes. Tried to steal Hank’s Halloween costume last year. I think he thinks he’s Batman.”

Erik turns around and gives them what Raven calls his _disturbingly shark-like, seriously Erik cut it out_ grin “For your information, I am _better_ than Batman.” He waggles his fingers. “He sometimes wears plate armor, he’s armed with metal weapons, and drives a metal car. Who, exactly, do you think will win in a fight here?”

Armando laughs while Alex scowls, unimpressed. Erik smirks wider, saunters up the ramp and gets into his usual seat, right behind the co-pilot chair. He’s strangely aware of the empty seat next to him, even though it’s normal because Charles is always the last on board and waits until everyone’s strapped in first. They’re not… ignoring each other, exactly, the kids haven’t even noticed, but Charles has stayed out of his head and Erik may have avoided being alone in a room with him all day.

The Jet lifts up, rising through the opening in the basketball court. The weather is clear, cloudless, and they get a great view of the City once they clear the surrounding woods. Erik is pulled back into the morose mood that’s been plaguing him all day; furthermore, the usual pre-mission tension is making him oddly conscious of the restless of his thoughts.

Things are hardly ideal. The country is still divided about mutants, even though public opinion is based on a dialed down idea of mutant capabilities. But Charles likes to point out that the country is also still divided on gay civil rights, abortion, and whether Charlie Sheen is legitimately insane, so. Meanwhile, for all of its faults, the system established by the mutant community has been relatively functional for decades. They deserve _more_ , far more, Erik knows. But by the time Erik was born, the advent of the information age was pushing anti-integration sentiment out to the very fringes. Most mutants no longer grow up totally isolated, their community is much better at organizing than the humans’, and if the more powerful of their number have to refrain from being too obvious about it, it’s deemed a small price in return for keeping their families and being fucking _comfortable_.

Like the way _Erik_ has gotten comfortable.

And when they do oppose the humans, it’s done quietly. Attempts to segregate mutants in schools kicked the dust when families left participating school districts in droves, and the marginally more organized Mutant Registration policy lasted a few months before going up, literally, in flames.

Specifically, mysterious and inexplicable fires in the three Mutant Registry Offices. As the Offices had been widely known to be under-funded, run-down, nearly derelict buildings, and no one had been hurt, and no sudden revolution or apocalypse took place in the ensuing weeks, the government had just thrown up its proverbial hands and declared the whole thing a bad job.

(And if the mutant community had been _particularly_ quiet after that, along with certain human officials in non-descript but key positions in law enforcement, the Bureau, the Agency, and the overall government, well. The idea caught on, seemingly overnight, that mutants should be left to govern themselves.)

Erik is still not sure how _he’s_ ended up where he is: working a regular eight to five desk job, reluctant guardian to a handful of teenagers, and getting to have regular sex with one of the best men he’s ever known, who also happens to be a wealthy, bashfully genius telepath. Oh, and he gets to use his power in creative and satisfyingly destructive ways, and also gets to play with technology that even the military doesn’t have.

It’s unbelievable and ridiculous and frustrating all at once, because it’s like a heap of good things have suddenly landed on Erik’s lap, unlooked-for, and a part of him can’t shake the feeling that it’s all been a _mistake_ , somehow, that one day the person for whom all this good fortune had been meant is going to barge in and take it all back.

Windfalls of this magnitude don’t _happen_ to people like Erik.

It occurs to him, belatedly, that he could have picked a better time than right before a mission to stew in his confused angst. Maybe penciled it into his planner.

“We’re closing in on the site, drop-off in five minutes,” announces Hank.

The Jet levels out. Charles, Erik, Raven and Angel get to their feet. Then Hank says, “By the way, there’s already someone down there,” right before Erik makes out a very distinctive metallic presence and thinks, _damn it_.

\+ + +

“What is _he_ doing here?” demands Raven, once the four of them are on the ground.

Wolverine smirks at them, shrugs. “Saw it on Twitter, figured I might join the party since I’m in the area.”

“It’s just an extraction,” says Erik, even as Charles squawks, “ _There is a Twitter?_ ”

Another shrug. “Target?”

“In code! Hank made sure our tweets are untraceable!” protests Alex over the comm line. “Besides, it’s not like anyone takes stuff you say on Twitter seriously.”

“Young female, approximately eight to twelve years old, powers unknown,” says Erik. “But she’s somehow keeping regular surveillance from tracking shipments of drugs in and out of these warehouses. Cocaine.”

Wolverine nods gruffly. Erik knows there’s no budging the man once he’s set his mind on a course of action; and because his subconscious just loves to jinx things, thinks, _maybe he’ll quit showing up without warning once he gets a taste of one of our boring jobs._

\+ + +

Dismantling the sensor field isn’t really necessary, since the basic plan is to get the guards out and attacking them so that Angel and Raven can get into place: one to snatch the captive mutant, the other to make sure the drugs don’t conveniently disappear again. But Erik is uneasy about being enclosed by unfamiliar technology, so he deftly cuts the power to the fence and the transmitters.

It still takes a while for the men guarding the warehouse to figure out that something’s wrong. Erik feels somewhat ridiculous to be standing _right in their midst_ , literally _waiting to be noticed and attacked_. Finally, there are indignant shouts, guns being brandished, cell phones being dialed. The latter, Erik shorts out as soon as he identifies them. The noise brings men from neighboring warehouses, which – hmm, they should have taken into consideration. But Charles is responsible enough to let him know if there are more than he can handle.

Bullets embed themselves into the ground around them. A few of them, on a more accurate trajectory, freeze mid-air several feet away and drop down harmlessly. And then the gunmen start doing the same, one after another toppling over, Charles gazing out with a finger pressed to his temple.

 _Erik, please stop the bullets from hitting Logan as well._

“It’s not like they’ll kill him.”

“Really not the point.”

“And it’s Wolverine, dear.”

 _He’s Logan in my head. I know the importance of using codenames, but_ in my own damn thoughts _, it takes extra effort to remember not to use your real names._

“And what if we run up against a telepath?”

 _I’ll sense them first. Really,_ Magneto _, you yourself don’t think of us in our codenames. Hostile telepaths can pluck it out of your head just as easily._

Erik grits his teeth. He keeps a proverbial eye on all the remaining gun-shaped objects in the vicinity, resisting the urge to grab a few and start clobbering their owners with them, and waves a hand to crush the last of the security cameras. He’s not linked to Charles, but he doesn’t have to be, knows that Charles is keeping an eye on the two lying in wait on the warehouse roofs.

It’s a somewhat pathetic excuse for a fight; the most distracting object to his metal-focused senses is Logan happily brawling away, so Erik makes the mistake of relaxing and, thus, not realizing what the belt buckle and iron fillings and knife standing too-still several feet away means until it’s too late. A tiny prick of pain, something squeezing tight around his lungs, and the ground comes rushing up to him.

\+ + +

Erik wakes up to eyes that won’t cooperate with him for several minutes and something restraining his arms and legs. Once the former wears off, he sees that he’s sitting in a low cage. It’s mostly dark, and he’s been tied up with _rope_ , of all things. The air smells a little fetid, strong overtones of piss and sweat, but it doesn’t bother him, not when the rest of his senses finish coming online and he feelstastesbreathes sweet metal all around.

But first. There’s a gun, several feet away, and Erik’s eyes confirm that it’s being carried by a man, dressed like the others who’d been guarding the warehouse. There’s a soft clank, metal, a shuffle; someone is in the cage with Erik.

The girl is huddled in on herself, limp against her chains. Yet, Erik’s seen an unfortunate number of exploited kids in his time, defeated or outright broken, and there’s something about her that’s just a little too _focused_. Their lone guard turns away, viciously punching numbers into a cell phone, and her eyes flicker yellow.

Of course. Erik has the tendency to forget that the others are not solely reliant on him to open locks; he suspects Raven has somehow stolen a key to the cage, mentally applauds her for getting the girl out first. Maybe she’d gone back in when she saw that they had Erik.

Getting captured by a bunch of unprepared humans. He’ll _never_ hear the end of this.

The gunman gives up on his phone and spins around, shotgun trained on Erik. “I don’t know who you think you are, freak. But we’ve gunned down your buddies outside and you aren’t going anywhere, so sit quiet.”

The man keeps on talking but Erik can’t hear him over the roaring in his ears. Without Erik there – and if Charles hadn’t realized fast enough that Erik wasn’t stopping the bullets anymore – suddenly Charles’ absence in his mind is a chasm, endless, a blank space filling quick with terror, _no, no, no CHARLES_.

He thinks he hears – senses – something, vague and far-off. The cage creaks ominously around him and Raven-in-disguise, but the gunman’s attention is back on his uncooperative phone. Erik resists the urge to point out to him that his phone’s screen, while on, is distinctly blank, and the internal chip is at least damaged. A knee digs into his side, and he looks back to see Raven nodding toward a small device stuck to a corner of the cage. It’s about the size of his fist, with three small dots glowing blue on one side. Actually, looking around – Erik realizes there’s one in each corner.

The dampeners. He blames the slow uptake on his still-sluggish thoughts. There’d been that bite, on his neck, right before he’d blacked out. Tranquilizer, maybe, and a chaser of sedatives. Or something else? Hard to tell, some cocktails take longer to wear off.

He focuses on the chains holding Raven-in-disguise. She hadn’t actually _locked_ them on, had she? She rolls her eyes at him and shows him where she’d just duplicated the image of the bands around her wrists and ankles, hiding the real bands in her hands and behind her legs.

He focuses on one of the metal chains, and it lifts up easily. But it’s harder than usual for Erik to hold it; his concentration keeps trying to splinter, wavering around the edges, as if he’s drunk and trying to gain purchase on something mentally slippery.

The sounds of explosion and wholesale destruction drift in from outside. Ah, the kids must be here.

After a minute, his stubbornness wins out, bolstered by thoughts of _Charles_ , the small stutters in his control smoothing down, and he knows he’ll be back to normal in less than half an hour. Far less. Fifteen minutes, tops.

“He’ll be fine,” whispers Raven in her own voice, right when something heavy lands against the side of the warehouse.

Ten minutes. But, fuck, Erik needs to _know_. If it’s his imagination or the kids are attacking far more fiercely than they would under the rule of Charles’ conscience.

Take out just one of the dampeners? Might trigger a fail-safe. Better to disable them all at once. He reaches out, gets a solid hold on all four, feeling out their internal parts. He’s too shaky and too full of the urge to crush something to be doing this, but. _Charles_. A miniscule _push_ , melding the wires together and flattening the electronic chips. The blue glow blinks. Fades.

Nothing. Erik feels the seconds pass, forces air in and out of his lungs. He looks at Raven. She shakes her duplicated head, little girl eyes tense with worry.

A familiar scream shatters all the glass and light bulbs from high up on the warehouse. Their guard shouts, tries to shield himself from the falling shards. Then he freezes, arm held over his head.

The metal door on the far side of the warehouse is hidden from view by shelves and boxes and storage crates, but Erik can feel something melting through the metal, _Alex_ , before the whole thing falls open. Figures jog in, and he recognizes Hank by his height and Alex by his chestplate and they’re flanking-

 _Erik?_ Charles’ thought-voice is tentative, barely brushing Erik’s mind. Erik physically sags with relief, mentally reaches out and latches onto Charles, inviting, hates himself for ever making Charles uncertain of his welcome.

Charles’ mind-touch surges back in, familiar and joyous, and Erik steals a moment to mentally press against it, the unresolved bramble of his confusion and anxiety bubbling out, _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_.

Movement behind Erik. Raven straightens up, blue again, brushing off the chains disdainfully. She tosses up her knife for Erik. He floats it, nodding at her gratefully. The rope is tough with age, but the knife cuts through after he temporarily refines the edge to extra-sharpness. Raven is already out of the cage by the time Erik shoves off the rope, rolls out himself, evidently having kept the key she’d stolen earlier.

The remaining gunman is on the ground, as asleep as his colleagues, though Charles’ expression seems particularly peeved when he looks at him. Erik entertains the brief thought that Charles can have the guy thinking he’s a walrus when he wakes up. The corner of Charles’ mouth twitches.

A storm of bad temper and invectives shows up, in the form of Wolverine, and Erik learns that Charles _had_ sensed Erik being tranq’d unconscious. And then Wolverine had jumped on top of Charles to shield him from the bullets. “His head might have run into my shoulder, he was a bit stunned for a while,” admits Wolverine, “which turned out to be a good thing, because once he remembered you going down, Professor Genius over here got the crazy eyes and wanted to come running after you.” Charles’ expression turns sheepish, while Erik suffers the claws of jealousy as his brain parades images of Logan pinning Charles to the ground, “I had to drag his ass away. Then the kids showed up, they’d been listening in and they knew what was going on.”

Wolverine suddenly quiets, looking off to the side. Erik follows his line of sight and sees Angel walking towards them, holding the hand of a little girl, the one that Raven had disguised herself as earlier. The girl’s T-shirt and generic khakis look grimy but still serviceable, and it’s hard to see any marks or bruises on her dark skin, but she doesn’t seem to be moving with any difficulty. She looks scared and intrigued, shyly staring up at Angel’s wings.

“Hello there,” says Charles. He crouches down to her eye-level. “What’s your name?”

“I don’t think she speaks English,” says Angel.

But, of course, Charles has other avenues, and after a moment the girl tilts her head, as if listening to something, then says, “Mandisa.” She blinks up at Angel. “I do speak English. But I don’t know any of you.”

Charles laughs. “Nice to meet you, Mandisa,” he says, “and you are perfectly right to be cautious around strangers. I’m called the Professor.” He holds out his hand. After a moment, Mandisa tentatively reaches out and shakes it. “My friends and I will be handing the men who kept you in the cage over to the police, and we’d like to get you home.”

“My home is very far away from here,” she says. “I’m from South Africa.”

“That’s not a problem. Now, I’m a telepath – this means I can go inside people’s minds. What is it that you can do, Mandisa?”

The little girl bites her lower lip, undecided. Then she looks up at Angel. A moment later, Angel has disappeared.

“Um, guys, why are you all staring at me?” asks Angel, her voice emanating from where she’d been standing.

“Remarkable,” says Charles, delighted.

“Look at your hand,” says Erik, a little more helpfully.

There’s a faint ripple in the air, and Angel gasps. “Oh shit, I’m invisible!”

“Angel!”

“Sorry, Professor.”

Mandisa doesn’t look like she’s noticed. Erik’s pretty sure she’s heard a lot worse around the kind of people who _keep kids in cages_.

Angel becomes visible again.

“Thank you for showing us your ability, Mandisa,” says Charles. “As I said, I would very much like to help you get home, and to stop those who kept you locked up. Will you let me look into your mind? I’ll go slowly, and if there’s anything you don’t want me to see, just let me know.”

She seems to be gaining confidence around them, because she doesn’t take so long to nod this time. The two of them fall into a silent exchange, eyes locked, during which Raven pops up and drags the unconscious gunman away none too gently. Erik knows he should help with the clean-up, but he’s somewhat reluctant to let Charles out of his sight. Wolverine shifts, looking awkward and impatient; Erik and Angel, who are more used to this kind of thing, just nod at each other and wait it out.

“Thank you,” says Charles, finally, patting her on the shoulder. Mandisa awards him a shy smile. He looks at the rest of them. “Her name is Mandisa Kuun, she’s eleven years old, and she comes from Johannesburg, South Africa. She has the ability to turn objects invisible while she is in physical contact with them. This trafficking ring kidnapped her and her sister, and are holding her sister as ransom for her cooperation.”

Wolverine starts muttering unsavory things under his breath. Erik frowns. “Do we have people in South Africa?”

Charles gives him a dry look. “Erik, we have people in _Antarctica_. Yes, I’ll get in touch with our contacts there as soon as we get home.”

They emerge out of the warehouse to see the warehouse guards piled in an unconscious, uncomfortable heap on the ground, watched over by Alex and Hank. The warehouses are… mostly intact. A container the size of a car is lying next to the building Erik had been in, the steel parts of the wall grossly dented. Something is still burning in front of the other warehouse.

“Where’s Banshee?” asks Erik.

“Went to sit on the drugs,” answers Hank. At the looks on all their faces, he anxiously adds, “No, I mean he’s on the warehouse roof! Also keeping an eye out for squad cars. Scanner says law enforcement ETA is around fifteen minutes.”

“Come on, he’s not stupid enough to use cocaine,” says Alex blithely. “Even if he tries to sneak some out, you know he can’t keep a secret.”

Erik has to concede the point.

“All right, everybody, head out for the Jet,” says Charles. “Wolverine?”

Wolverine hesitates, then shakes his head. “Nah, I’ve got my own way home.”

Naturally, Charles insists on shaking his hand, saying with all genuineness, “Thank you so much for helping us – things might have turned out rather poorly this evening, if not for your assistance. I likely owe you my life.”

Erik meets Logan’s eyes over Charles’ head and tries to communicate, _yes, what he said,_ purely via facial expressions. Logan looks grateful for it.

Angel goes and collects Sean from the roof. Hank pulls the psychic dampeners from the cage. They trek over to the next empty warehouse, where Hank had hidden the Jet. Mandisa clings to Angel’s hand but follows Charles with her eyes; Charles, in turn, seems to be looking at Erik every time Erik glances over at him.

By the time they’re in the air and heading home, Erik feels like he’s under sedation again, wants to sleep through the entire weekend. Charles, in the seat next to his, is outright staring at him. If the kids notice their quietness, they seem happy to take up the slack, reliving what sounds like a full-scale battle for the benefit of Raven, Angel and Mandisa. Raven and Angel clearly aren’t convinced by the _embellishments_ \- there hadn’t been that many guards, surely Charles must have knocked out at least half of them by the time the cavalry arrived – but are likely keeping quiet because of the wide-eyed, enraptured look on Mandisa’s face.

Erik wants nothing more than to crawl into bed the moment they land. But Charles has to coordinate with whoever has taken charge of the drugs and warehouses now, make arrangements for Mandisa’s situation – all important calls that can’t wait. Raven automatically takes the girl up to find her a room. Erik, as familiar with this routine as all the others, grumblingly changes out of his suit and supervises the clean-up of the Jet and the docking bay.

“Hey, you can go and sleep now,” says a voice, suddenly. Erik opens his eyes with a start, not having realized he’s closed them. He doesn’t remember leaning against the wall, either; in front of him, Alex’s face is a study in artful nonchalance.

Erik glares, but it’s hard to come up with a proper response when his thoughts feel like they’re tumbling through molten caramel.

Alex rolls his eyes. “Look, I know that thinking of us as kids helps with the family structure or whatever, but _we are not actually children_.” In the hallway, something heavy crashes into something fragile. “Most of the time. Can you just go to sleep before you fall on your face? Personally, I think that’d be an improvement, but the Professor seems to like what you have right now, and I need him to help me write my essays.”

“All right, fuck, I’m going,” grumbles Erik. He wonders if a bit of those sedatives _are_ still in his system – he loses time between the basement and _the top floor why the fuck are there so many stairs_ and stumbles, just barely, into the bedroom, blindly taking a familiar number of steps, whereupon he falls over, face-down, onto the cool blankness of clean sheets, and passes out.

\+ + +


	4. gone a little wild

He’s warm. He’s warm and comfortable and there’s a familiar shape tucked into his side. He can tell that Charles is looking at him, even without opening his eyes. Neat, nimble fingers stroke random patterns over his chest.

 _I know you’re awake._ Charles’ thoughts taste of sleep, slipping in like warm limbs filling a space long contoured to their shape.

Erik huffs, turns his head towards Charles, though he keeps his eyes closed. _I know I was wearing clothes when I fell asleep._

 _Yes, and getting dirt all over the bed._

 _You seem to like that kind of thing,_ slips out, along with his earlier imaginings of Logan and Charles. Newly-wakened Erik is not the best at keeping a handle on his brain.

Charles snorts right into his shoulder. “Really, Erik, you are _jealous_? Logan saved my life. I admit, I might have gone a little... wild, when I saw you collapse.” The words are followed by memory, from Charles’ view. Erik sees himself: standing, one moment, Charles looking away to telepathically knock a gunman unconscious, then looking back to see Erik on the ground, a couple of men darting out of the warehouse with rope. Charles had been about to seize the minds of those men, everything else forgotten, when the hard bulk of Logan slammed into him, because all the guns had still been firing.

Erik gets the other things, too, that don’t necessarily translate into concrete thought or memory – the flare of panic when something seemingly straightforward met an unexpected factor, how Charles’ confidence had been thoroughly rattled, the mixed relief and worry when he saw the kids running in. The overwhelming terror when Charles realized he couldn’t sense Erik or Raven.

 _And you’re fine, neither of you are hurt,_ Charles murmurs. Erik brings his hand up to cover Charles’ where it’s pressing down on Erik’s chest. But at the time… there is a danger, it seems, to being so reliant on any one of our abilities.

They’ve gone into missions before where they’d known they would to take casualties, had braced for difficult obstacles. It’s different, jarring, when they’d been expecting a relatively seamless victory. And what if Logan hadn’t been there? Erik tightens his grip on Charles. _Clearly, we have been taught a lesson in overconfidence._

Charles sends out a mental pulse of agreement. Erik takes a long breath, lets it settle his focus on the stretch of his lungs, his ribcage. This is his favorite way of conversing with Charles. With his eyes closed, surrounded by familiar objects and the rest of the world at an acceptable distance, it feels like the most intimate of whispers, just the two of them in a private space where thoughts flow easier than breathing.

Right now, Erik can’t quite achieve the completely relaxed state he needs, where the world shrinks down to just him-and-Charles. He blames it on the lingering tiredness in his body. Should drugs be taking this long to wear off?

“You’re unhappy,” whispers Charles, distracting Erik. His voice is unexpectedly rough. “I mean, you tend to be frustrated and annoyed a lot of the time, but this is something deeper.”

Erik sighs. “It’s not… anything specific.” He twists his head further, dipping his nose into the tangle of Charles’ hair. _I guess I’m wondering what it is I’m doing here._

It’s an advantage of telepathy, that Erik doesn’t need to elaborate, because Charles gets all the different layers of meaning: what purpose does Erik serve, why has Charles chosen Erik instead of someone better suited, why do they do what they do when bad things will never stop happening and they won’t be able to save everyone anyway.

 _Oh, Erik,_ and he’s suddenly being flooded by feeling, drowning in it, all Charles’. He’s never known what to make of all that Charles thinks of him, can’t even hope to sort it out. And how, anyway, does this answer anything? _But it does, Erik, you ridiculous man._

Then Charles is kissing him, wet and full of intent, like his tongue is trying to write his reasons straight into Erik’s mouth. The slow, deep licks leave Erik breathless, Charles’ soft moans blurring what coherency he’d gained since waking. He pulls Charles on top of him. Turns out Charles had stripped them both naked, which Erik decides is a laudable act of foresight when Charles twists and thrusts against him, bringing their erections into heated contact.

Erik gasps out, “ _Charles,_ ” voice low, and finally opens his eyes. Desire surges through him, heady, at the sight of Charles straddling his thighs. There’s a telling flush on Charles’ skin as his heated gaze roves, in turn, over Erik’s bared body. It’s fairly dark in the room; what light there is, is coming from the tall balcony windows, where the heavy drapes have been pulled back and the thin curtains are lending the light a pale bluish cast. It makes Charles’ skin almost appear to be glowing, except where Erik can see lingering shadows left by his hands, his mouth.

With the way Erik’s been thinking lately, this seems like yet another impossible thing: Charles, beautiful and beyond possessing, moving through the world with Erik’s marks on his skin. Charles makes a small sound and leans back down to kiss Erik again, hard.

 _You think you don’t deserve me,_ murmurs Charles. _Ludicrous, when it is I – but fine. I would like to keep you anyway, if you don’t mind._ Teeth bite down on Erik’s lower lip. _I was quite vexed at those men, you know. They got their hands on you. They took you from me._ Charles’ hands are all over Erik’s body, groping, blatantly possessive. He shifts off and pushes Erik’s knees apart. _I’m dreadful at sharing, I don’t know if you’ve noticed._ Lips and teeth close over one nipple, working the flesh hard enough to sting. Erik swears and bucks up, causing Charles to wiggle and slide on top of him deliciously. _You are_ mine _, Erik Lehnsherr. No one else may have you._

It’s rare for Charles to get so demonstratively possessive. Which is a pity, because Erik is so hard he’s aching, and he wants more, wants to see if Charles will take him all the way-

A long finger slips between Erik’s legs, lube-slick even though he hadn’t heard the tube being opened, and it spreads wetness all down the valley of his ass, before circling teasingly around his entrance. The tip pushes through the ring of muscle, pauses. Withdraws, and Erik gasps out a strained, “Charles,” and then Charles is sliding the whole finger in, smooth and practiced, just shy of being too fast.

 _So hot, Erik,_ the finger pulls back, pushes in, _I hated not being able to hear you. Want to be inside you, all the time._ Charles punctuates the thought by rubbing over Erik’s prostate, making Erik buck up again, moaning. _I can make you come like this._ A second finger. Erik whimpers. _But then, I can still feel your cock from the other night, and I’d like you to have a similar reminder tomorrow._

A third finger, and Charles pulls one of Erik’s legs up, resting it on his shoulder. _You are a man of intense passions, Erik. And you are_ mine.

“Yes, yours,” gasps Erik. It’s maddening, how Charles can have _three fingers inside Erik_ while his thoughts still sound so _prim_. Charles’ other hand wraps around his cock, stroking roughly, and Erik thrusts up into his grip, at the same time spreading his legs further, inviting. “Come on, Charles. _Please_. Want you inside me.”

Charles groans and surges up, licks into Erik’s mouth. Erik feels his heartbeat rise up to his throat as he watches Charles fumble on the condom, pour out more lube. The link between their minds is so open now; Erik’s blood is already surging with anticipation.

 _I want you so much, _then Charles is pushing into him, immediate and inexorable, hot hard flesh and sweet steel mind, _I wonder if you know just how much_ , Erik gasping as he’s taken, _so tight so much oh God_ , moans at Charles moving inside him. His body feels split apart, filled, and yet he wants “more, please Charles,” greedy for it, for all of Charles, to see Charles come undone as well.__

 _A lesser man would have run away_ ; their minds this close, this tangled, Charles’ recurring disbelief delivers the taste of a musical minor chord. Erik isn’t sure how Charles can penetrate him so deeply and still not get that Erik loves this, _loves it,_ the chaos of their bodies and minds uniting, thoughts and senses and physical realities losing definition and casting him into a limitless beyond.

“Charles,” he stutters out. His mouth and his voice feel very far away. The tumult in their joined minds translates to a wayward mess of limbs, erratic thrusts. “Harder, Charles, please, fucking _fuck me_.”

Erik is dimly aware of Charles’s hips snapping harder; even more distantly, the elaborate creaking of the bed. But his focus, what remains of it, is on how Charles is inside him in every way. This is the only time he can know a taste of Charles’ power. The sense of another mind, the motionless reach, then Charles’ thoughts are streaming through him, _so beautiful can never believe this he’s not afraid at all don’t want to lose him_.

It is the best kind of high, consummate and without compare.

Fingers grip his hips tightly, bruising. Charles’ mouth is open over his, the two of them a mess of licking and breathing and moaning, and they’re pressed skin-to-skin at every possible point, clutching desperately, Charles’ thrusts collapsing into a shallow rocking motion with Erik’s legs twisted tight around him. Pleasure like mercury syrup spills up his spine with every push and drag of Charles’ cock.

But the physical is nothing compared to the dance of his mind with Charles’. Barriers disintegrating alongside Charles’ control, distinctions inconsequential, leaving only an endless tumble of Erik-Charles-Erik-Charles-Erik-Charles. Joining like this carries a danger, each and every time, oblivion waiting just a careless step away.

He comes with a high gasp, words lost to him, shattering hard into nothingness.

Returning to himself, his body reclaiming those parts that are his, always comes with a deep note of loss. Their panting breaths, synced, seem almost alien at first, all sensory input a hot mess.

It’s the most intense sex they’ve had in a while. Erik wonders what inspired it. For future reference.

“Erik,” rasps Charles, an indefinite length of time later, “if you are unhappy here… I won’t force you to stay, if you wanted to leave.”

Erik stills. Forces his eyes open to stare at Charles.

“You’re restless. You’re wondering what’s out there,” Charles continues, not meeting his eyes. “I recognize the symptoms. Most mutants who come through here eventually move on, after all. _You_ had intended to, I remember.”

Erik wants to laugh at that – staying in this house as a stranger, bruised and limping and informing Charles that he would only be here for _one week_ , at the most - but he can’t quite feel his face yet. Or the rest of his body. Charles shifts, pulls his spent cock out of Erik; he barely feels the twinge.

He can sense Charles withdrawing his mind as well – not separating, like before, but giving him space.

Erik lets out a breath. _You’re a bit of an idiot,_ he thinks, as clearly as he can. _Stop trying to be noble, it’s annoying._

 _But you can’t deny that you’ve been unhappy._ The familiar lines of a pout are starting to appear on Charles’ face. Good – Erik prefers irritation to his earlier stoic acceptance.

“It’s _normal_ , Charles,” he says. Gives in and cards his fingers through Charles’ hair, now a totally hopeless case. “It’s natural to feel restless after being in a routine for a while. Probably an evolutionary imperative, to use your language. Doesn’t mean I want to _leave_ , mein Gott.” He almost asks, haven’t you been in a long-term relationship before?

Thankfully, his brain has regained enough functionality to stop the words from leaving his throat.

The sky on the other side of the curtains is definitely dawn-colored. Erik lets the silence settle around them. He nudges Charles to the side, tries to pull the covers over them both. Charles huffs, looking pointedly at Erik’s stomach. Oh, he hadn’t even registered the mess of ejaculate, though once Charles has made him aware of it, he feels the stickiness and pleasant soreness all over. Charles just wipes him off using a far corner of the sheets, and they settle back down again.

Erik keeps thinking through all of this, and eventually comes to two conclusions. First: he _does_ want to do more, to be something different, because as much fun as it is to run around playing superhero after dark, his days are occupied with him resisting the urge to commit mass murder for eight hours, and he’s not sure how much longer he’ll last on that front.

Charles is still watching him, his head level with Erik’s on the pillow. Has he even gotten any sleep? Erik leans in and kisses those lips, tasting the absurdity of them.

Second: as frustrating and helpless as it can be, to be a mutant in a human world, there are many ways the situation can be far worse, and one of these possibilities is forefront in Erik’s mind.

Charles’ eyes are a little tired around the edges, but still a deep, steady blue. It seems like a lifetime since Erik’s first sight of them, clear skies of kindness after the warrens of pain.

“I don’t know – anything, not if I’m ready, or... but whatever I do, whatever comes next,” Erik drops his voice low, as one confessing a truth, “I want you by my side.”

\+ + +

Hours later, Erik makes a tactical retreat from the glorious Saturday sunshine and accompanying scenes of riotous teenage vitality outside, and finds Mandisa standing alone in the main foyer. She’s gazing at a vase that’s taller than her, likely a priceless antique. After the sweaty t-shirts and grass stains of the other kids, she looks neat and regal in a clean blue dress that must have belonged to Raven at her age.

“This is a big house,” she tells him somberly.

He knows that the arrangements for her safe return home have already been made. She’d even spoken to her sister, right after waking; evidently, Charles’ contacts in South Africa can move fast when they need to. They’re just waiting for the paperwork to go through, and giving her time to recover.

“It’s the Professor’s house,” he says. The big, empty house that the young Charles had grown up in, all alone until Raven had allowed herself to become his first mission, his first rescue.

How many must have passed through here? It’s a haven, a refuge, a safe-house. At some point, Charles had made the decision to open its oversized doors, to welcome the waifs and tend the wounded. Erik has always thought only about that part, never on what happens after. Not about Charles, always staying behind and watching others leave.

There’d been something in Charles’ thoughts, slipping through inadvertently – Charles had pictured Erik already at the door, bag packed and boots donned.

Erik traces his fingers over the carved patterns on the vase, careful but with a smile at Mandisa. Here, he wants to say, this is something precious and exquisite – but that does not mean it cannot be touched, handled, felt.

Antiques, at least, present no danger of running off or spouting divergent ideologies.

 _Charles,_ he calls out, _I think I’ll go back to school. Finish my Masters in engineering._

 _Excellent!_ cries Charles. A burst of happiness, flavored by sun-dappled grass. Then Charles’ thought-presence turns distracted. Erik hears, distantly, Hank’s voice profusely apologizing. _Ah, could you unlock the storage shed? We’re going to need more baseball bats._

Erik chuckles and shakes his head. Reaches out with his power to the small structure at the edge of the trees. Mandisa watches him peacefully, seemingly acclimatized to people randomly converting to telepathic communication.

Storage shed unlocked and the bin for the sports equipment helpfully pulled out, Erik returns his attention to their young guest. “Mandisa, has someone shown you around the house?” She shakes her head. “Would you like a tour?”

She nods. “Yes, please.”

“All right.” He straightens up. She looks a little old to be holding his hand, so he just leads the way, shoes clicking crisply on the smooth marble floors. “This, as you’ve noticed, is a very big house. It has belonged to the Xavier family for many generations, gradually expanding the grounds and adding rooms over time. Over here is the small drawing room…”

 

\+ + end + +

 

It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home  
\- _**Home** by Edgar A Guest (1881-1959)_


End file.
